


I Found Peace in Your Violence (Can’t Tell Me There’s No Point in Trying)

by theshipsfirstmate



Series: I Found Peace in Your Violence [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Missing scene-ish, bc holy shit this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipsfirstmate/pseuds/theshipsfirstmate
Summary: Post-1x10 & 1x11. That night, after everything is said and done, Karen finds herself standing in her kitchen, staring at a terra cotta pot of white roses."Because all that tragedy doesn’t do anything to stop this pull between them. It didn’t stop his lips from finding her cheek that night by the river. It didn’t stop him from jumping in front of another bullet meant for her, and it didn’t stop her from rushing back towards a bomb he’ll be blamed for. It doesn’t stop them from reaching for each other when they should be running for their lives."





	I Found Peace in Your Violence (Can’t Tell Me There’s No Point in Trying)

_A/N: HI I’M NEW AND KASTLE IS KILLING ME. Anyway, full disclosure: I have only watched select scenes of Daredevil, and Punisher (aka the Kastle scenes, essentially), and mostly-watched Defenders S1. But I love these two and I needed them to kiss, so I wrote a thing. It’s not any deeper than that (even though it got very out of hand), so please forgive any massive errors or oversights._

_Title from “[Silence](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dtk36ovCMsU8&t=MzVjY2Y4NjEyZjkwMzg1NDBlYzVlYTMyMDI4OGIwOGExMjA1NTE4YixZdlNHWXNNdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AiAw4tJIAalN1OvhWtUFPsQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheshipsfirstmate.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168144015594%2Fpunisher-fic-i-found-peace-in-your-violence&m=1)” by Marshmello feat. Khalid, because it really screams Kastle to me rn._

**I Found Peace in Your Violence (Can’t Tell Me There’s No Point in Trying)**

That night, when she finally gets home after a few hours of questioning, she’s almost robotic with exhaustion. She goes through the motions, changing out of one more set of clothes ruined by the smell of smoke and blood and panic, using scalding hot water to shower off yet another brush with death, taking her first real, deep breaths in what feels like days. An hour or so later, she finds herself standing in her kitchen in her pajamas, staring at a terra cotta pot of white roses.

They’re fake — she could tell the second he dug them sheepishly out of his bag — but still, Karen wonders if Frank meant for her to keep them. She wonders if he meant to give her something so permanent. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy,” he had said, with a look on his face that was nearly a smile, and her foolish heart had skipped a beat in the pause before he explained the true purpose of the plant.

When he turned to leave that night, she had practically lept into his arms – she almost has to laugh at the absurdity of taking The Punisher by surprise – grabbing a hold of him tight.  _With two hands_ , her mind echoes. She remembers how they had swayed in the quiet warmth of her kitchen, how his arms spanned her back when he tightened the embrace, how it had felt, for just a fleeting second, so much like a normal moment between two people with normal lives.

She’s thought a lot about that hug in the weeks that followed, sometimes with the burning flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, sometimes with the hot sting of tears. She hadn’t been sure at the time, or for a long time after, exactly what – or who – it was all about. Was it because of how impulsive she was with him, or the way his guard dropped around her? Was it his death wish or her newly-heightened sense of mortality? His angels or her demons?

Maybe it wasn’t even about them at all, some part of her brain that sounded a lot like Foggy had offered one time. Maybe it, like so many other things, was really about Matt. Maybe it was about the way Frank had smirked at her over a cup of coffee once, and told her – like he knew better than she did – how in love she was. Maybe it was more about the devil who died a hero, than those left behind in hell.

But maybe not.

Tonight, she picks up the pot of roses, and only when she hears the ceramic base rattle against the countertop does she realize her hands are shaking. She blames the end waves of the shock that’s been coursing through her system for hours, and tries telling herself it has nothing to do with Frank Castle, that she might as well just toss the flowers down the chute because it’ll be months again before she has to worry about him.

But it’s exhausting lie, and one she finds herself too weary for on a night like this. So instead, she thinks about Frank’s forehead pressed against hers – one moment of peace in this vividly traumatic day – and she walks the roses across the room. She remembers the look in his red-rimmed eyes and sets the pot on her windowsill. Her rational mind catches up eventually, but still she leaves them there, crossing back to the kitchen and saying a silent prayer that he’ll return to her as readily as he did the last time.

Everything’s still right at the surface – the icy terror that had sunk in when she realized he wasn’t following her out of the kitchen and  _away from the bomb_ , the solid warmth of his hands cradling her head after the world exploded around them, the agonizing sight of him climbing that elevator shaft with barely one good arm between the two. Karen’s convinced that she just needs to see him to settle this turbulent feeling in the pit of her stomach.

It takes him less than an hour to call. She tries not to let herself think too hard about everything else that means.

 _“You okay?”_ She should have known not to expect pleasantries. His voice is Punisher-low, and it throws her off long enough to make him worry.  _“Karen?”_

“I’m fine, Frank. Sorry, I–” It’s the worst possible time to find herself tongue-tied, but she can’t help it. They didn’t say goodbye earlier, not really, and the sound of his voice, clear and strong and alive, whites out her brain for a few blissful seconds.

_“The flowers.”_

“Yeah.”

 _“A mistake?”_  Something of a loaded question.

“No.” She silently curses at herself when she realizes she’s blinking away frustrated tears. “I just… Can I see you?”

 _“I, I don’t–”_ His voice sounds pained for a brief moment and then he goes quiet for what feels like a very long time.  _“It’s not safe.”_

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay.” She can’t see his face, but she’s so sure he wants to say yes. It might be the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces. “Okay.”

 _“Karen.”_ He puts so much into those two syllables of her name. He tells her an entire story in five letters – and one she’s heard before, no less – about how this thing only ends in an inferno.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight.” She’s trying desperately not to sound desperate, but there’s no time to appreciate the irony. “Just, when it’s safe. Whenever. Please.”

He doesn’t answer, but she can hear him taking shallow breaths on the other end of the line. She wonders where he is, what blood-soaked new steps have been added to his list of plans. She wonders if he has the same look in his eyes that he did in the elevator. She wonders, if he was standing in front of her again, if he would lower his eyelids and tip his head to the side, just slightly.

“Frank?”

_“Yeah, okay.”_

“Okay.” She sighs out a rush of relief, and hears something rustle on his end. “Please be careful.”

He hangs up after a gruff but similar sentiment, and Karen thinks that’s another one of the ways they say the things that can’t be spoken out loud.

* * *

Despite his agreement, she spends most of the next day going stir-crazy in her apartment – on a temporary leave from work that Ellison had made clear was not up for discussion – doing research and doubting she’ll ever see him again. It’s become a bit of a habit for her, wondering with every half-goodbye if this time will be the one that makes them wish they had gone all in on whatever it is they’re gambling.

She’s smart enough to know the danger didn’t die with Lewis, and now the whole city’s calling for Frank’s life too. The knot in her abdomen laces itself tighter with every article she reads.

Mercifully, he doesn’t keep her waiting long. Just after one a.m. – she’s sitting on her bed with her laptop, putting off the nightly struggle to close her eyes and keep them shut for any meaningful amount of time – there’s a tap on the window by her fire escape. Karen barely even flinches, crossing to undo the latch and meeting his eyes through the thick glass.

“It’s still not safe,” Frank says before she has a chance to speak, sliding inside and looking her up and down. She’s suddenly very conscious of her sleepwear, even though it’s a relatively modest zip-up and shorts. “Sure you’re okay?”

She almost laughs in spite of herself at his concern, given the fact that he very nearly took another bullet to the brain less than 48 hours ago. “Yes, Frank, I swear. I – are  _you_  okay?” He looks like hell, with an impressive collection of cuts and bruises, some of which appear to be worryingly fresh.

“I thought maybe it was–” He ignores her and then trails off, eyes darting around the room. She realizes he’s sweeping the place. “Maybe it was something you couldn’t say over the phone.”

 _God,_ Karen thinks, what a pair they make. She looks at him and sees a dead man walking. He looks at her and sees a hundred ways to get her killed. Her hands itch with the need to touch him. “Thank you,” she practically whispers when his eyes finally make it back to hers, “for coming.”

Because all that tragedy doesn’t do anything to stop this pull between them. It didn’t stop his lips from finding her cheek that night by the river. It didn’t stop him from jumping in front of another bullet meant for her, and it didn’t stop her from rushing back towards a bomb he’ll be blamed for. It doesn’t stop them from reaching for each other when they should be running for their lives.

And it doesn’t stop him from showing up at her window just one night after he told her it was too dangerous. Even worse, once Frank’s certain she’s not in immediate physical danger, his eyes go sad and earnest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

She can’t help it then, looping her arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him close. He responds in kind, banding his arms around her back like they have before in this same space, but he seems wholly unprepared for when she turns, almost unconsciously, to press a kiss just above his ear – where the thin red beginnings of a scar remind her, in centimeters, exactly how close she came to losing him.

Frank freezes in her arms, pulling back enough to meet her eyes with a questioning look that breaks her heart in a familiar way.

“I’m sorry.” She’s not, but she says it anyway, shuffling her feet nervously. “I just needed to…”

_To see you. To touch you. To make sure that what’s left of your soul didn’t spill from your temple in that elevator shaft._

She remembers, in the moment yesterday, wondering how he was possibly standing with a head wound like that. She remembers swallowing down bile later, when she heard Madani tell one of the agents at the scene how Billy Russo grazed him as he ran down the stairs –  _towards her_. It’s been cleaned and stitched up now, but there’s still something to the primal impulse she’d had to press her lips to his cheek, to stain her mouth red and tacky, to taste his pulse on top of his skin.

Tonight though, her chaster instinct has stopped them in their tracks – Frank’s hands are warm but completely still on her waist while his eyes flicker down to her mouth. He doesn’t move, and she doesn’t have an end to the sentence she started. “I just needed to.”

She watches his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows what might be answers to the questions she’s too afraid to ask. His hands come up to trace her own battle wounds, far less severe than his, as evidenced by the effort it takes him to lift his right arm. But he’s overwhelmingly tender when he frames her face, brushing a calloused thumb over the cut on her forehead, and she takes in a shaky breath.

“Christ, Karen. I tried to tell you.” He’s gruff but not angry. In fact, there’s something in his voice that she’s never heard before. “How many times I gotta say it? I can’t have you in this with me.”

She bristles and pulls away from his hands, enough that he drops them back to his sides, and his eyes to the floor. “I’m in it, Frank. Like it or not.” She understands it’s his protective instinct, but this is not a conversation worth entertaining, not when every second is so valuable to them right now. “I was in the woods with you. I was in that kitchen. I was in that elevator.”

He shudders, and she wonders if it’s the thought of pressing a gun to her chin. She remembers how his eyes had gone black when she suggested the move, how he had spent precious time insisting there was another way. Mostly, she remembers how he was shaking so violently behind her that she was worried he was going to blow their whole cover.

In the end, they had settled for removing the clip from the gun, but even over the heart-pounding tension of the standoff, she could feel him hating every moment.

“I just want you to be safe.” This is why she can’t trust anyone who only sees Frank as a killing machine, Karen thinks, the terror that fuels him is so clearly etched across his face. Her heart cracks when his voice does. “I  _need_  you to be safe.”

“I’m safe right now, right this second,” she offers wryly. “Maybe that’s all we can ask for, anymore.” It’s mostly a joke, but he flinches again. She reaches out to gently pull his right arm to her, checking the spot where the shrapnel had been embedded. He’s all patched up, though, so she traces her way down and tangles their fingers together. It’s a loose hold, but he doesn’t let go or pull away.

“I wanted to stay with you in that elevator.” She looks up when he speaks, but his eyes are focused on their intertwined hands. “If you hadn’t told me to go, I would have… I wanted to–”

“I know.” Her words come out heavy, bringing forth the tears in the back of her throat. He takes a few sharp breaths and continues.

“I can’t afford to make those kinds of mistakes, Karen.” His hand squeezes hers and she wonders if he meant to do it. “Not with what’s coming.”

 _You let me know if you find a way to shut it off._ That’s what she wants to say. Instead, she just repeats herself, somehow even heavier. “I know.”

He sighs and looks up at her for just a second, before averting his gaze. “I don’t know how many more ways I can prove I’ve got nothing left to offer you.” One step forward, two steps back. Karen furrows her brow and tells him the truth he won’t let himself hear.

“I’m not asking you for anything, Frank.” She tries to keep her tone sharp, but ruins it with a sniffle, and he looks like the sound physically pains him. “I just wanted to see you. It’s not wrong to want things.”

His nostrils flare at her final words, and she prepares herself for a gruff reprimand on why she’s got it backwards. But that’s not what he tells her at all. “I haven’t  _wanted_  anything in a long time,” he admits, with an emphasis on the word that sparks something low in her gut. “But I did yesterday.”

He doesn’t tell her any more. He doesn’t have to, Karen’s breath catches at the sense memory. If she closes her eyes, she’s certain she’ll still be able to feel the diamond-plated steel up against her back, the  _almost_  that he left on her lips.

But she can’t look away from his gaze, not any more than she can stop herself from asking, “And today?”

Frank nods, so softly and imperceptibly that she’s not even sure he knows he’s done it. It’s a nod like the one he gave her when she finally found the right wire on Lewis’ bomb. The metaphor practically writes itself.

He tugs on her hand and takes one step closer, putting them almost toe-to-toe. She stands her ground. She can feel the atmosphere get lighter once they’re sharing it, can feel every cell in her body magnetized in his direction – but he has to be the one to pull the trigger. He’s in control, not because he’s The Punisher, but because he’s a man who’s lost everything, more than once over. She won’t be another person who takes more than he’s offering.

So she asks one more question. “What about tomorrow?”

“I’m going on the record for Madani first thing tomorrow,” he murmurs, tipping his forehead down to hers once again, so close she can feel the warmth of his words on her lips. “I don’t know what happens after that.”

It’s intentionally vague, and she understands why. From Karen’s perspective, the Homeland agent seems trustworthy enough so far, but she knows as well as Frank does that there’s a chance he doesn’t even make it in the building for that testimony. Or out again afterwards.

“Frank–” She wants to lie and say it’ll all be fine. She wants to tell him the truth about how proud she is. But her eyes have fluttered closed and his lips are on hers the second she says his name. One kiss, then two, until she’s losing count. True to his unspoken word, the flames between them roar to life as soon as the match is lit.

He smells like gunpowder and sweat, but he tastes like copper and cinnamon, and her eyes snap open and then closed again while one hand snakes around his waist and the other reaches up to stroke his stubbled cheek. He groans into her mouth, low and dark. It sounds like her name.

His lips are softer than they have any right to be. None of it’s fair, really, not the way his calloused hands leave goosebumps when they skim down her sides, not the way her knees wobble when he pulls her flush against him, not the way he kisses her like it’s salvation. And especially not the way her heart thuds painfully when she realizes he’s only doing it because he thinks he might not get another chance.

They stumble backwards towards her couch and, without breaking the kiss, he clumsily pulls her down to straddle his hips, anchoring her with warm hands on her waist, fingers curled around the waistband of her shorts. She grinds a little in his lap when he sweeps his tongue across hers, but the groan from deep in his throat calls to attention the rapidly approaching point of no return.

“If there’s anything left when I’m done with all of this…” Frank presses the words to her lips, deep and desperate, as his hands flex on her thighs, “if there is an after–”

Karen kisses him back just to keep him from making promises he’ll have to worry about keeping. Even still, his words deal the shattering blow to that piece of her heart that’s been breaking for him since they met. This is the moment, she knows it for certain. They can slow down and do things the right way, or carry on and let it all turn to ash.

Frank’s following her lead so closely that it’s easy for her to drag their kisses to a lazy stop, once she’s able to talk herself into it. He doesn’t pull away completely, just keeps his forehead pressed to hers, palms smoothing softly up and down her legs. “Y’okay?”

“Yes.” She says it because it’s the truth, and when he answers her small grin with one of his own, she feels giddy and triumphant. “But I think, you know…” It’s hard to focus when his hands haven’t stopped moving. “I think we should–”

“Yeah.” he nods and stills, eyes going a little wider. He’s clearly, finally caught up, at least a little. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She gingerly climbs off his lap to a spot beside him on the couch and takes a beat to steel herself before she looks back up. His smile is gone, but in its place is something even more surprising – something that looks almost like a confession. It lifts a burden off her chest and brings tears to her eyes, and she realizes it’s because she’s always expected that it would be an apology instead.

When she kneels up to steal one last kiss, Frank lets her take two. “Will you stay?” she asks as she pulls back, and the corners of his mouth turn up again. She wants to pinch herself. “Just for a little?”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close, tucking her up against his side. “C’mere.” For just a second, she flashes back to the elevator again, to reaching out for him when he was just too far away. But tonight Frank’s t-shirt is soft against her cheek, his chest is warm where she rests her hand, and it keeps her here with him. Once he presses a kiss to the top of her head and heaves out a deep, shaky sigh, she starts to drift off to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Karen’s not surprised that he’s gone before she wakes, but she is surprised to find herself tucked into bed, a note on her nightstand the only evidence he was ever here. She reads it again and again, pacing the kitchen and eyeing the roses that still sit in the window. It’s the most he’s ever asked of her and the most he’s ever promised, all at the same time.

 _Stay safe,_  he’s scrawled on what looks like a page torn from a paperback book. And then, lower:  _If there’s anything left, it’s yours._

 


End file.
